gym teacher!Clark Kent x teacher!fem reader headcanons
gym teacher!Clark Kent who all the teachers swoon over in the break room, who always has to hide his smile whenever he comes in to eat his lunch because he knows what you all were just talking about (because super-hearing, duh)
gym teacher!Clark Kent who always has a full report ready for you when you pick up your class, telling you “Johnathan really improved his time on the mile today!” or “Isabel gave everyone high fives at water break!” and beaming like a proud father
gym teacher!Clark who makes PE fun for everyone, who’s always kind and understanding of every kid’s limits
gym teacher!Clark who makes PE fun with holiday activities and other themed events, including his famous “superhero day”, where he plans activities like smashing through “walls” made out of foam bricks, while stressing all the while that these are foam and “just because Superman does something doesn’t mean it’s safe for you to do too”
gym teacher!Clark who always runs along with the slowest kid on the track so they don’t feel bad or left out
And of course you’re swooning along with the other teachers because not only does he have muscles for days, not only is he kind and sweet to you and the kids, but he’s also so smart and perceptive
gym teacher!Clark who always notices when you change your hair or wear new jewelry and is always the first to compliment you
gym teacher!Clark who seems to know the history of every sport and teaches the kids about their origins
gym teacher!Clark who helps little kids tie their shoes and puts band-aids on their skinned knees. He even has different themed ones and lets the kids pick whichever one they want (and of course he has Superman ones)
gym teacher!Clark who is always doing research on child development and on what exercises are best for kids to do
gym teacher!Clark who’s always using his Ma and Pa’s sayings around the kids to the point where you start hearing them say them to each other around school
They imitate other things about Clark too, like his speech patterns. When you first hear one of your kids say “golly” you’re completely floored
gym teacher!Clark who asks you one day in the break room if you liked PE as a kid, to which you say, “no, but I think I would’ve liked it a lot more if you were my teacher”
He smirks and you rush to correct yourself
“No, not like that— I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant that you make PE fun”
gym teacher!Clark who becomes determined to get you to like sports, so he takes it upon himself to take you out around Metropolis and introduce you to every sport he can to find out what you like
He’s actually so earnest and sweet about it that you find yourself having fun even if you don’t enjoy the sport you’re playing
One day, after he took you to play dodgeball at a trampoline park, you finally pluck up the courage to ask if you can count these outings as dates, and he says, “I was hoping you would ask that”
Can you please reblog if your blog is a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, aromantic, pansexual, non binary, demisexual or any other kind of queer or questioning people? Because mine is.
Summary: There are very few who have not heard tale of Prince Kal-El. Krypton's Warrior Prince is revered by his people and reviled by his enemies, who grow stronger every day, threatening Krypton's dominance. An alliance between your kingdoms might just be the key to peace — on the condition that he marry you, the King's daughter, to seal the treaty.
Part I Part II Part 3
Tags: arranged marriage, medieval fantasy au, royal au, princess!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, anxiety, heavy themes of misogyny, references to disordered eating, repression, it will get better y'all I promise
Notes: This idea came to me as a divine vision and I couldn't let go of it. This will be a three-parter! Hope you enjoy!!!!!
If you had been told just how cold Krypton would be, you would have at least asked for sleeves to be added to your dress.
As you enter the grand hall, looking out at a sea of people adorned with fine fur pelts and dyed leather, you feel like the modiste might have played some sort of sick joke on you. Your arms are woefully bare, and this hall, with its vaulted ceiling and tall, stained-glass windows, is woefully airy. Your dress, gorgeous as it is, is in the style du jour of your own kingdom, built to provide breathability even under the excessive layers of fabric that give your skirt its shape. But outside this hall, several feet of snow blanket the ground, and even behind thick walls of stone, the air freezes your skin till your every hair follicle stands on end; you’ll just have to hope your groom doesn’t mind his bride looking like a plucked goose.
It’s a delicate balance you strike, as you step down the aisle that’s formed through the middle of the room, a crowd of strangers on each side of you. Your muscles are locked up tight, willing yourself not to visibly shiver, or trip, or look too stiff as you place one foot in front of the other. Looking weak is not an option, your mother’s voice reminds you, not in front of these people.
Kryptonians. Your people, soon enough.
It’s difficult to ignore their stares piercing through you, just as the cold does, observing every practiced, fluid movement you make. You’d hoped, in vain, that your groom might prefer a private ceremony, given the royal family had even permitted a few of your own relatives to attend — a highly unusual allowance. But the Kryptonians were communal by nature, and the tight-knit royal court would never pass up the opportunity to see their Prince wed.
At the end of the aisle, he stands tall, awaiting you. Watching you.
Kal-El, you remember, the name sounding foreign even in your mind.
The ceremonial robes he’s adorned with are a vibrant red, caped over the familiar blue and yellow military uniform of the Kryptonians, a stark reminder of why this ceremony is even taking place, and why it had to happen so quickly.
You’ve anticipated this day your whole life. You’re the last of your sisters to be married off. Your eldest sister left your home when you were just nine years of age, wed to the ruler of a kingdom across the sea in exchange for precious material resources, and no amount of wailing and pleading on your part would make her stay. The education you received as you grew only confirmed what you learned that day: that daughters of Kings had a duty to their country, to the good of their people, and your father had a duty to do whatever it takes to ensure the welfare of his kingdom.
Or, more simply put: one day you would be wed, and you would not have very much choice in the matter.
At least the purpose of your arrangement is more clear-cut, more urgent. An evident solution to an imminent problem, for both your realms. Krypton’s position as the supreme power on the continent grows more precarious with every day that the Thanagar Rebellion continues, and all the military might in the world can’t bring the Thanagarians to the negotiation table, if the past five years were anything to go by. It’s ironic, then, that Krypton’s beloved Warrior Prince was the one to realise your kingdom’s strategic value in ending the conflict, despite — or perhaps, especially because of — your people’s peaceful nature. Your father, the great Concilliator, has ended wars before, and clearly Prince Kal-El thinks he can do it again.
For a price, of course. Your kingdom would forever be under Krypton’s protection, as the home of Prince Kal-El’s bride, and your people would never have to fear for their safety again.
Even from across the grand hall, your groom is formidable. He towers above his people, broad-shouldered, chin held high like there’s already a crown on his head to balance. The sheer size of him is nothing like you could have imagined. When his eyes finally meet yours, azure and austere, you can only hope no one notices the gasp that leaves you.
You reach him too soon. Your measured, smooth steps forward have carried you down the aisle, and before you know it, he’s turned to face you fully, his eyes unreadable and distant, palm outstretched in offering. His hand in yours is the first warmth you’ve felt since you arrived.
The priest, whose face is covered by a brilliant, glowing mask, steps forward from the altar, garnishing a stretch of red fabric, which he ties around your joined hands. He speaks, addressing you and your audience in a tongue incomprehensible to you, and to keep your eyes from glazing over as you listen, you sneak a glance at your poker-faced groom.
Of all the stories you heard about the Warrior Prince of Krypton, none of them mentioned how blindingly handsome he is. The brutal strength you’ve heard tale of is undeniable, his arms thick with corded muscle that not even the fine fabric his uniform can disguise, his hand twice the size of yours; he could crush you, right here under the altar if he likes, just as he’s done to enemies on the battlefield. They say his presence alone can turn the tide of a battle lost. They don’t mention the dimples that appear on his cheeks as he gives the priest a polite smile, or that his voice is deep and stern, but not harsh. Steadying. The whole room holds their breath just to hear him speak.
He catches your stare, turning his head to look at you. But then so does the priest, and everyone else in the room. Expectant. Your turn.
Despite the hours you spent practicing the simple phrase — “I will stand firm in my vow to you” — you stumble, stuttering over the foreign feeling of their language on your tongue, your accent abysmal. You have to force yourself not to wince at your obvious mispronunciation, and ignore your governess’s voice in your head (“Disgraceful! Disrespectful!”). The Kryptonians, to their credit, do not laugh at your faltering, and if the Prince finds your mishap amusing, he doesn’t show it. He nods respectfully, his expression open as he repeats the phrase in a humiliatingly perfect accent.
The priest nods solemnly, accepting your vow exchange, then leads you both to a pillar in the middle of the altar. A carved steel chalice sits on top of it, filled with a clear liquid, and the Prince moves gently as he guides the hands you’ve tied together to pick it up. It’s a delicate maneuver, requiring your fingers to tangle together, the warmth from his palm radiating to yours, grounding you.
He’s careful as he brings the chalice to your lips, tilting it slowly to clue you in, so you’re prepared to open your mouth and accept his offering. The liquid is pleasantly fruity, and he doesn’t force it down your throat like you might’ve expected him to, just a couple sips and then the chalice lowers.
He thankfully doesn’t leave you guessing as to what the next step is, drawing the chalice up to his own lips, leisurely and subtle, so as to not give away his guidance (and your cluelessness). Your hand does not tremble as you tilt the chalice towards him, saving you the embarrassment of spilling it on his face.
Your eyes can’t help but linger on the purse of his lips. The bob of his throat as he swallows. Your cheeks flush with heat as you realise just how beautiful you find him, and you’re glad to look away from him when the chalice is lowered back onto the pillar. The priest rambles on for a bit longer, looking between the two of you, before he seems to address the crowd, his voice rising to boom throughout the hall in declaration. The Prince uses your tied hands to tug you along, gently, to face him again.
He takes a long moment to stare at you, his eyes no longer blank, but searching. Trying to communicate something you can’t understand. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and then he’s leaning in closer to you, pressing his lips to yours.
It’s not an unpleasant feeling. His lips are pillowy and soft, and only press to yours for a mercifully brief moment before pulling away, a mere brush of skin, before the hall bursts into cheers. The noblemen are too busy tossing flower petals into the air to notice the way you nearly jump out of your skin at the sudden cacophony, a rainbow of confetti falling around you. You mimic the wide smile the Prince wears at the celebration, covering up your shock quickly.
He guides you, slowly, mindful of the difference in your height and of your hands still being tied together, down the steps to the altar and towards a door to the left, instead of back down the aisle like you expected.
You catch sight of your family then, a few rows back in the crowd. Your parents stand next to two of your brothers, the youngest of which has a watery smile on his young face, trying to hold back his tears. You will see him later this evening, at the reception dinner, and then never again. You send him a reassuring smile over your shoulder before the door shuts behind you.
You’re alone with the Prince now, tucked away in a small, circular room that’s no less ornate than the hall you’ve exited, the skylight ceiling bathing you both in fading sunlight. Tables line the walls, displaying a variety of canapes and hors d’oeuvres, sweets and cheeseboards and flutes of every beverage you could possibly conceive of. In the center of the room is a simple settee, decorated with plush pillows, large enough to fit two people. Your stomach drops at the sight of it.
This is the consummation room.
“You’ll break your fast before dinner, privately. You’ll have your fill of amuse-gueules,” You recall your mother’s explanation. “And then, he’ll have his fill of you.”
You can’t even bear to look at the Prince, your heartbeat quickening in your chest as you anticipate his bruising touch on you at any moment. The hand that isn’t bound to his clenches into a fist at your side, instinctually, dying to fight your way out, and it takes every inch of your willpower to loosen it. Your jaw goes tense, in the hopes that when he inevitably bends you over the furniture and forces himself into you, you can hold back your cries, for the sake of guests on the other side of the door.
For your people, you remind yourself. For their peace.
“Do you speak the common tongue?”
Your head whips towards him, eyes wide. You didn’t expect much talking.
“Forgive me, I have not had the time I would’ve liked to learn your native ton-” He continues on.
“I do. I speak- I understand you just fine. Your highness.” His title is tacked on at the end, your brain working too slowly to remember your etiquette. “My apologies, for my… less than impressive Kryptonian.”
That makes him breathe out a laugh. Not polite, like before, during the ceremony, but genuine. He’s somehow even more handsome when he smiles like this, warm and sincere.
“I’m told it’s a difficult tongue to master.” He reassures you, moving to untie the cloth that keeps your hand tied to his. “Are you thirsty? It’s best to save room for the feast, but a beverage might tide you over till then.”
His concern for your wellbeing only alarms you further. Why is he drawing this out? Did he want to avoid you fainting during the act? Or perhaps prevent you from dropping a canape in shock, ruining the fine carpet?
You stand there, blinking at him in perplexity, even after he drops your hand and it flops back to your side, in a manner that could only be described as the opposite of graceful. But he’s not even looking at you, instead he’s striding across the room, grabbing a glass of fruit juice and planting himself down on the settee.
When he notices that you’re still frozen in place — notices your fear — he softens, putting his hands out, palms facing up in surrender. “Please, sit. We’ll only have a few minutes to rest.”
You move slowly, cautiously, plucking a glass of the same juice from the table and making your way to the center of the room to join him, never taking your eyes off his hands.
You sit in disquieting silence, sipping sweet beverages and avoiding eye contact. He is your husband now, and you know you must obey him, but your body resists obedience with every ounce of strength it has.
Which is not very much.
You’d never been allowed very many culinary indulgences, but ever since the engagement was announced you were under very strict orders from your mother to “watch your figure!” while your brothers piled three different kinds of red meat and grain onto their plates, under the excuse of being "growing boys”, not men grown already. After long days of studying Kryptonian culture and dance classes and piano lessons — your brothers’ longsword training lessons in full view from the library window — you’d taken to falling into slumber during your evening baths, then being shaken awake by your ladies in waiting, alarm clear on their faces, telling you without words that you had taken far too long to wake up.
And yet, you still resisted submission to this man on the couch with you. Your face burned with shame. After so many years of contending with your fate, you thought this day might come a little easier to you, that eventually the satisfaction of being a perfect lady would set in with maturity and age and you would look forward to marrying the future King of the most powerful kingdom on the continent. But here, now, sitting and taking a breath right in the middle of the fanfare, the eye of the storm, you feel like your chest might be collapsing in on itself.
“We can stay here as long as you’d like.” The Prince says gently from beside you. When you turn to him, he’s gazing at you knowingly, but not pitying.
“We cannot keep them waiting.” You reply, practiced.
“They will wait for me.” He doesn’t sound haughty, just assured. Safe.
You nod, because words escape you then. You’ll take this little mercy, just before what will surely be the longest night of your life.
Prince Kal-El never comes closer to you than the length of the couch.
The food being delicious does little to assuage your nerves, lit afire by the cacophony of the dining hall as your wedding guests indulge in the reception feast.
This portion of the celebration is the polar opposite of the ceremony, the torches along the wall and the mass of bodies dancing, eating, and bantering being more than enough to warm the freezing palace walls, though your hair still somehow remains standing on end.
You stare out, a polite, practiced smile plastered onto your face in the hopes no one will notice the blank look in your eyes, as you try to reconcile the stories told about Kryptonians with the people in front of you. From your table at the crest of the dining hall, elevated on a stone platform, you have a full view of the banquet as it unfolds. The warlords and barbarians you read about bear little resemblance to the crowd in front of you, where everyone greets each other like old friends, singing songs that they all know the words to and knocking back hot ale and wine like it’s water. The same Lords that held their breath to hear their Prince speak his vows approach him like uncles now, clapping him heavily on the shoulder in congratulations, and he greets them with the same enthusiasm. His joy, you can tell, isn’t a farce; he loves these people like they’re his own family.
They are, it occurs to you. They’ve either seen him grow from a babe in his mother’s arms to the titan he is now, or grown right alongside him, and all of them — both the men and the women — have likely fought a battle or two with him. It’s a bond that’s incomprehensible to you, but it’s evident to anyone with functioning eyes.
Despite the platters of food as wide as your husband’s shoulders and as high as your eye-level, you can only bring yourself to indulge in the bread rolls, warm and baked with herbs in the dough and perfectly buttered, and a bit of the poultry. After the first hour of you picking and plucking at the food on your plate, the Prince leaned close so you could hear him over the roar of the crowd and asked if the food was to your liking, and you nodded eagerly, flashing a smile so as to not worry him. He shot you a concerned look at first, but then one of his father’s generals approached your table and he was thankfully whisked away into conversation and congratulations, before you were forced to explain that your mother was watching you from her place just a few feet away.
You excuse yourself easily to freshen up in the washroom, trailed by your new lady’s maid. You are a woman grown, a married woman, who still must be accompanied to the washroom, not even trusted to wash her own behind.
Your mother waits for you in the hall when you’re finished, clearly intent on catching you in a moment alone, bringing you into a tight embrace, and despite the pit in your stomach that forms every time you see her, the scent of her arms around you will always be soothing to you. Sickeningly familiar.
“Did it hurt terribly, my dearest?” She says, in your own language, so even the lady’s maid standing a few feet away can’t eavesdrop on your conversation.
“Did what hurt?” You say, confused. She pulls away, her hands coming to clutch your shoulders, looking at you in questioning.
“The consummation, dearest.”
“I-I didn’t- he didn’t-” You’re trying to get it across, but even you’re confused by the whole situation. The consummation was not exactly presented to you as optional, and yet, the Prince didn’t lay a hand on you, not until you stood and nodded to him silently, so he knew you were ready. And still, he did not take you, simply presented his arm for you to take and led you to the dining hall to make your grand re-entrance.
Your mother is in disbelief, peppering you with questions about why and how and what exactly he said or did in your time alone together, but even you don’t have answers for her. His motives are a mystery to you.
“Well, it is no matter. You must consummate tonight. Your marriage must be seen as legitimate, or the alliance between our kingdoms is null and void. Do you understand, my dear?” You nod, trying not to show the fear that clutches you at the thought, of consummation and of endangering your people. “You must not leave your marriage chambers unbedded.”
“Yes, mother. I understand. I won’t-”
“Good!” She switches back to the common tongue, then. “Let’s not keep your husband waiting much longer, dear.”
You’re guided back to your seat next to the Prince, just like you are guided everywhere.
You can see your future in crystal clarity before you, being chaperoned from room to room, your skin plucked and your body penetrated till you die, hopefully before you’ll ever have to chaperone your own daughter.
Your placating smile returns to your face for the next few hours, while the party rages on with no sign of stopping. It must be past midnight, but the Kryptonians seem to have boundless energy for a proper celebration, including your husband. His cheeks must be sore from hours of grinning, his stomach full as he’s cleared plate after plate, and yet he’s still jovial, conversing with his family and friends, knocking tankards together in salute with little regard to the ale that spills onto the floor and down sleeves as a result.
Eventually, he stands, taking your hand in his and moving to leave the table, causing groans to ring out around him. You descend the platform together and you trail after him as he slowly makes his way to the door, a long process, as he’s stopped every few feet by well-wishers, either bidding him a good night or cajoling him into staying a few more hours. He smiles widely at every one of them, hugs them tightly, but shakes his head at the invitations to stay, before thanking them for their attendance and moving on. It goes on like that till you reach the towering wooden doors that lead out of the hall, exiting with polite waves towards his people, and despite craning your neck in an attempt to see over the crowd, you cannot seem to find your family before the doors slam shut.
Your ears ring even in the silence of the corridor, struggling to adjust as your husband leads you away from the dining hall, your steps echoing in tandem with his. Your heart pounds too hard and loud in your ears, and you have to force your breathing to regulate instead of hyperventilating; the corridors are far too echoey for your panic to go undetected, and the leisurely pace you’re taking leaves no excuse for your racing heart.
You walk for what feels like an hour. These halls are long and winding, and the further you walk, arm in arm with your husband, the more terrified you are of ever having to find your way through this castle by yourself. It’ll take years, you’re sure, to learn the layout of your new home. You begin to wonder if your husband’s quarters — where you’re sure he’s leading you — is on the other side of the castle when you round a corner and find the entrance doors to the dining hall again, music and chatter still audible through thick wood.
You look up at him, eyebrows pinched in confusion. “Your highness, are we returning? Are we not-?”
“We will make it to our chambers eventually.” He explains, a lighthearted smile on his face. “We are simply… taking the scenic route.”
It hits you, then, that despite his humorous tone, he truly does want to delay the consummation, just as you do. That he is, in a way, a victim of circumstance as you are, marrying a stranger for the good of his people. That he might understand your reluctance better than most.
“Oh,” is all you can muster up for a response. “Alright.”
“Unless you wish to retire?”
“No!” You say too quickly. Improperly. Disrespectful!, your governess’s voice rings in your head again, as your cheeks heat and you refocus your gaze ahead. “I only mean, I wish to follow your lead, my husband.”
He doesn’t respond, but he keeps his gaze on you, quiet and deep in thought. You walk in silence for a bit, past the dining hall entrance and around another corner, before he speaks again.
“I want you to feel comfortable here.” He says, in that same comforting tone he used earlier, like he’s coaxing a feral animal out of its cage.
“I will, your highness. You need not worry.” Your tone is measured, steady, confident, a voice you can recede into instinctually, before anyone senses your distress.
“Yes, but- I understand this isn’t- you did not choose this.” He stumbles over his words, sounding unsure for the first time since you’ve met him. You pointedly look away from him, eyes fixated on the walls, as if the intricate carvings on the bleached stone are the most interesting thing in the world, so he can’t see the way your eyes well up with tears at the acknowledgment that you are not here by your own volition. “Should you think of anything that will make you more comfortable, or give you some solace, or- anything. Anything you want, I will give it to you.”
You switch your distracted stare from the walls to your skirt, your free hand coming to pick at the beading, clinking softly. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what he can give you that will make any of this better. No matter what, you cannot go back home.
“Thank you.” It comes out as a whisper. Any louder, and he’d hear the tears that threaten to close your throat.
He falls silent afterwards, thankfully.
Your steps echo down more unfamiliar corridors, twisting and turning till you reach a courtyard on what must be the west side of the palace, judging by the sun’s setting rays beaming through the ornate glass ceiling, providing cover from the frequent snowfalls you’re told plague this kingdom. You’re a floor above it, and the Prince guides you to the railing to gaze down into this oasis in the middle of the palace, a spread of green amongst stone, flowering bushes and grass and a few trees, impossibly blooming. You don’t even notice the Prince slipping his arm from yours, allowing you to lean further over in amazement.
“How?” You ask, looking back at him.
“Our groundskeepers work very hard.” He replies simply, like it’s not a marvel to have a thriving garden in the middle of winter. You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you.
“This is- it’s incredible.”
Your home was all rolling fields of grass and meadows of flowers, a rare patch of forest here and there. You’d come to accept you’d just have to get accustomed to Krypton’s snow-capped mountain peaks on the horizon, its climate far cooler than you’ve ever endured. As your eyes rove over the familiar sight of greenery, they land on a familiar sight, a bushel of red berries that you’d often eat in the mornings to break your fast. Your favourite, in fact.
“I wasn’t aware that fragaria is native to Krypton, too.” You say it happily, knowing that at least you’ll have something familiar to eat tomorrow morning.
“It isn’t.” He responds. When you look back at him in confusion, he’s smiling fondly. At you. “When our engagement was announced, I asked for some flora native to your own kingdom to be planted.”
You hate the way your eyes fill with tears again. You’ve done more crying today than you ever intended. But this time, they’re tears of gratitude. Of relief.
“Thank you,” You say again. “Truly.”
“If you wish for anything else-”
“I will tell you.” Your voice is truly sure this time. Genuine. Then, “Are the berries ripe yet?”
“I will have to inquire with Klinn-Il, he often tends to the fruit bushes.” You step away from the railing, slipping your arm around his again, resting your hand on his forearm as you continue on down the corridor. “If they are, they’ll be picked fresh for you on the morrow.”
“That would please me very much, your highness.” A genuine smile finally graces your face.
You walk at the same leisurely pace as before, but more comfortably. Pressed closer together, exchanging conversation rather than silently begging him not to say anything to you. He asks you questions, about your home, your family, and you tell him easily, seeing him nod intently, as if the life of the last-born daughter of a King was the most important matter in the world. You ask him your own questions in return. You learn that Krypton does get warmer, in the months opposite to your own kingdom’s summer, that he is close with his parents and has tea with his cousin, Kara, every chance he gets, though she’s quite the adventurer and is rarely home. You learn he is fond of cats, and of music.
When you finally reach what must be the entrance to his chambers, you know each other just the slightest bit more. Not quite a stranger anymore, but your breath still stutters, the reality of what’s in store for the rest of the night slamming back into you like a kick to the chest.
His room is not what you expected. The stained glass windows scatter mosaics of colours all around you, brilliant and shining in the sunset, illuminating the sitting area and warming the room. There’s a scattering of armchairs and settees, all in the colours of the House of El, surrounding the fireplace that’s already been lit for you. On the furthest wall from the entrance are double doors that lead to a private balcony, and to your left, a canopy bed. Every decoration is plush and extravagant, inviting. You try not to think about your own room back home, or how none of the colours are ones you’d pick out for yourself. This is the Prince’s room, and so you belong here, with the rest of his possessions.
“Is it to your liking?” He asks.
“Yes.” You lie easily, but again, your body doesn’t cooperate. As he moves further into the room, you stay put in the entryway, as if remaining far from the bed will protect you from what’s to come. You both know the customs of his people. Even if he was kind enough to want to spare you, he could not risk the voiding of your marriage, not with the safety of your kingdoms on the line.
“Are you warm enough? I can add more firewood-”
“No, I’m quite warm, your highness.”
He looks back at you. Recognising your fear, again. You stand feet apart, both unsure, trepidatious.
He stares down at the floor as he speaks to you, like he’s ashamed. “I will have to undress for bed.”
“As will I.” Your voice is distant.
“I will turn around while you undress.”
“Your highness,” You shake your head. “It’s no use.”
But he turns anyway. You hear the buttons of his coat pop open, slowly, like he wants to give you extra time. You sigh, knowing as well as he does that there’s no sense in prolonging the inevitable, but you comply with his wishes. You loosen the back of your gown clumsily, having to untie the laces by reaching back and fumbling around till the ties come undone, enough to slide the heavy fabric down and off, stepping out of your behemoth of a skirt. And then you’re left in your stays and chemise, grateful, at least, for the warmth of the room as you shed your few layers.
When you dare to look across the room at your husband, you gasp quietly at the sight of his bare back. He’s somehow even broader, stronger with his clothing off, the expanse of his muscular shoulders, the dimples at the base of his back, right above-
You avert your eyes again, trying to focus on removing your stays, but the laces start higher up on your back than the dress, hard to reach and even harder to untie, and there’s no lady’s maid here to help you. He must hear your frustrated whine as you twist and bend your arms to try and get ahold of the ties, because he asks if you need help, without even turning towards you, still keeping his promise not to look.
You lock up at the question. Your cheeks are already heated from your frustration, but you can feel blood rushing to your face again at the prospect of him so close when you’re in such a state of undress, but you remember there’s no use. He will see much more of you, very soon.
“Please.” You finally acquiesce, and only then does he turn, crossing the room as soon as you ask.
You keep your eyes low, not wanting to scandalise yourself further with more glimpses of his body, and gasp at the feeling of his hands brushing against your back.
“Is this alright?” He asks, stilling.
“Yes. It’s fine, your highness.” You say, automatically, again. Powerless to deny him anything.
He makes quick work of the knots, pulling the laces on your back loose till he can slip it over your head easily, then retreating from you. You frown, again, at his delays. Almost hoping he’d get it over with already.
When he reappears before you, he is clothed in a light tunic, loose and worn from frequent use, and similarly loose britches. He barely glances at you as he climbs into bed, burying himself under the thick duvet, as if truly readying himself for slumber.
You stay put, in just your chemise, still lingering in the entryway like you could bolt out of the room. His gaze fixates on the ceiling.
“You may come to bed, if you wish.” He says. “Or sleep on the futon, or wherever else you desire. I will not interfere with your sleep.”
You step forward. Hesitant. Slow. Disbelieving. It takes you forever to approach the bed, and an embarrassing amount of effort to climb onto it, as it was clearly built with his size in mind. It’s expansive, much bigger than your own, and covered in more blankets and plush, goose-feathered pillows than you can count, the sheets like silk against your skin. There’s ample space between you and him, laying on opposite sides of the mattress.
“Your highness,” You start, once you’ve situated yourself comfortably on top of the bed. “Surely, you know that- that you must-”
“Sleep, my wife.” He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice, his eyes already shut. “Both of us must sleep. It’s been a long day, for us both.”
You do not sleep.
You sit there for a long while, unable to fall asleep as he does, studying him, watching his face go slack and his breathing deepen as he falls into his slumber. With him so still like this, unconscious to the world, you finally have the liberty of truly, openly staring at your new husband.
He has been kind, against your every expectation. He has been considerate, and has never once shown you anger, even as you repeatedly displayed your fear in front of him, your fear of him. Your resistance hasn’t seemed to phase him. You remember again, staring at him like this, that he is incredibly handsome. The curls that had no doubt been slicked back this morning are falling onto his forehead, bringing a smile to your face, despite yourself.
When you finally climb under the covers, settling into the mattress, with your eyes still on him, like at any moment he’ll transform into the husband you’d imagined you’d have, twice your age and unforgivingly brutal. But he remains the same, a peaceful expression on his face, quiet snores escaping him.
You decide, then, to trust him for the night. And as you close your eyes, you allow yourself to wonder, for the first time, if you may have married a good man.
fuck it, i never ever do those “reblog for X, this one really works!” posts, but this one doesn’t have any of that BS, this is just straight up wishing us good things; and then the comment doesn’t even say any of that either. Zero claims on this post, all positive vibes
May you end this week feeling ever more certain of a future you’ll love
Heyyyyy! excited for the Clark drabbles, the way you write him makes me weak. Wanted to ask, do you have any personal headcanons for clark that add to his sweetness? Like i think he definitely has a framed picture of Ma and Pa somewhere on his desk lol, or one of him and Jimmy even though Jimmys right there
OHHHH ABSOLUTELY DARLING !!! i have a couple things to say about clark kent, slightly specific based on how i write him so bare with me...
the lil things about clark kent | headcanons
🖊️Before you got together, he'd break five pens a day.
Sometimes eight. And not on purpose! No; he felt bad about every single pen, every single time; golly, what a waste. He just couldn't help it. He'd be writing, letting his thoughts out before he could forget, and he'd hear your laughter trailing towards him like a cartoon scent coming off freshly-baked goods. Or, you'd call good morning to him from your desk, face fresh and bright and so incredibly beautiful he could barely stutter a reply back. Or, you'd drop a pen of your own, bending down to pick it up. He'd stare at you for long enough that the ballpoint would practically disintegrate in his hands, thumb pressed against his other fingers in a mini, messy little ink explosion.
And he'd sigh, every time, let it clatter into the bin and reach for another like it was routine.
That year, his Secret Santa got him a box of forty-eight BICs, making Clark blush furiously when it came time for the gift exchange. It lasted him two weeks, before he decided enough was enough and finally worked up enough courage to ask you out.
🍫Unironically, his favourite chocolate is a Snickers.
The little mini ones; wrapped individually like little sweets, bite-sized pieces he adores because it's a little pop of protein, Lois, when she raises an eyebrow at how he's consumed twenty in the span of two hours because being a superhero, there aren't any negative effects on his health. Pa used to snack on peanuts a lot when Clark was a kid, so it made him feel a bit better and oddly, connected to home.
In the apartment you both share, there's always an open bag of them somewhere. In cupboards, his bedside drawer, even your freezer; I like the texture of them, sweetheart. The bin's littered with Snickers wrappers, and whenever you hug Clark, there's always that tiny little scent of peanut butter that clings to him just as much as his cologne does.
He likes other chocolates, sure! Typically the ones everyone else hates, because as a kid he'd leave all the 'good ones' for his friends or Ma and Pa; he'd just grown to really love them overtime. He's cute and sweet about it, and when Halloween comes around and a kid shows up to your door dressed as Superman, shyly asking if he can have a Snickers instead of a Twix from the candy bowl- Clark can't help but beam.
🖼️He's quite dramatic about his love for you; one picture frame on his desk simply isn't enough.
Lois rolls her eyes. Jimmy calls him whipped. Even Perry raises an eyebrow when he passes Clark's desk,
"Do you really need all of that, Kent?"
"What?" Clark would blink, obliviously.
Jimmy'd fold his arms, "You know you have a phone, right? With thousands of pictures of her in it? You don't need all these, Clark. They're just taking up space."
With a shrug, Clark would say, "I like having them."
And the frames would grow over time. Two (one of you, cuddling Krypto; the other of both of you cuddling Krypto, taken on the same day) soon turned into four, that four snowballing quite rapidly into eight. It came to a point where Lois plopped a photo album down on his desk one day, a disapproving yet warm head shake accompanying his brand new gift.
"For the love of God, Clark. Put them away."
So he did, though he didn't want to (he'd knocked a few over and was starting to see what Jimmy meant about the space thing). He still kept four, of course, the rest going in the album that he kept open at all times; ready to flick through, ready to melt at the sight of you whenever he needed.
these were so fun and wholesome to write- would loooooove to start doing this more !! any requests or asks, please do send them my way!💋🫧
You’re all dolled up in your favorite dress. Your hair is perfect, makeup done just the way you like it.
You’re beautiful he thinks. You’re so incredibly beautiful, the perfect woman to have my heart.
Yet so devastatingly sad.
It’s poetic, how beauty can shine through such adversity.
Peter can’t look at you, he can’t look into you.
Your stare pierces his heart and shoots straight through his soul.
You’re disappointed because you can’t believe what he’s saying.
“I’m going to… to forget about you?”
How small you sound, how sad. Your voice guts him like a fish.
He wants to kick himself down the way he kicks down the deserving assholes of New York.
Can he technically count himself as one? He does so anyway.
“I’m really gonna forget you?” You repeat, clearer and a bit louder now.
Peter nods and repeats himself. “You’re gonna forget who I am.”
Now that he’s said it, it hurts more. It's so much worse when he’s saying it out loud.
You don’t care to stop the tears from rolling down your cheeks. They flood your eyes and you’re not strong enough to blink them back.
“Are you serious?” Your voice wavers and you hate how weak you sound.
You think you look and sound pathetic but is it pathetic to be crying over something he can control?
There’s no one like him and there never will be.
He snatches his mask off and you see the redness in his eyes contrast with the suit.
“It’s the only way I can ensure your safety, Y/n. You, Ned, and MJ can’t get the lives you deserve as long as you’re tied to me.”
You nod slowly, letting your sadness simmer slowly in reserved anger. “So you think giving me an explanation before you leave my life would make me feel better?”
Peter shuts his eyes and looks to the side, a big window catching his eyes.
He thinks about everything going on outside of it, all the noise and people. Just outside that big, clear panel is a world of pain and suffering.
Inside this wall of glass is a possible opportunity of endless joy and hope. Joy because he's always happy with you, regardless if the two of you are doing anything or nothing at all. Hope because you give him that everyday, all the time.
He's at a crossroad in his life, the biggest one yet. He knows what he should choose and why but he doesn't know if he wants to.
Of course, he doesn't want to but does that matter? Does it matter, what he wants? Has it ever mattered?
It doesn't help knowing that in every single universe, you aren’t the woman he chooses to cherish for the rest of your lives. You the one time he does choose you, he’s also supposed to be the one to let you go?
It doesn't make sense to him, he shouldn't do this! But he must. He has to.
“Please, Peter.” Your plea rings in his ears like Green Goblin's pumpkin bomb. “Can’t you just make another spell? One that’ll make everyone who doesn’t need to remember, forget?”
You feel your heart break as he shuts his eyes once again and refuses to make eye contact with you.
He's fighting himself, you know he is.
You shakily exhale, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.
“Okay.”
Peter eyes you wearily. “What?”
“Okay.” You repeat, nodding twice to yourself.
He doesn't believe you, you know he doesn't.
It takes a special kind of bond to know those kinds of things.
“After all of this is over and by some miracle I forget you...” You breathe in. “You won’t come find me and I’ll be okay with that.”
Peter ignores the heavy grip around his throat that restricts him from crying. Instead, he chooses to nod in quick motions.
“But you have to show me.”
You're serious. Your reddish eyes contain a glimmer of hope but it's caged away for its own protection.
“I have to show you..?”
“Yes. Show me how to forget you.”
He scoffs in disbelief and feels your bitterness scorn him. His false bravado starts to fade away.
“Y/n, please don’t do this right now.”
“I’ve known you our whole lives.” Your tone grows loud. “You used to babysit me despite being the same age, Peter. Now I’m supposed to be okay with you leaving me?”
His eyes threaten to well up and he’s trying his best to hold his own.
“You’re my best friend,” You whisper sadly. “And I love-” You get a hold of yourself.
Peter’s eyes widen and he steps closer to you. “You… you love what?”
You look away and sigh in frustration, not wanting things to go this way.
Peter cups your face, his gloved fingers softly caressing your face to soothe you.
“Tell me. Please.”
You open your eyes and look straight into his, to hell with the planning and execution.
If this is there is the slightest chance you’re gonna remember anything from tonight, you want it to be this.
“I love you.”
Peter hugs you close, his cheek pressed against the side of your head and his arms bind you tightly.
A sob bubbles out of his mouth and you hug him back just as tight, crying with him.
“I’m sorry- I’m so, so sorry.”
His throat hurts from trying to clamp down the rest of the sobs in his chest.
He pulls back and holds you face in his hands again, feeling the newfound confidence graze his heart.
He nods softly, a trying smile on his face. “I’ll remind you.”
You softly gasp at his words.
“I’ll remind you. I don’t care how long it takes but I’ll find you and tell you everything.”
He brings your foreheads together and your hair fills the spaces between his fingers.
He thinks of the other Peter's and remembers their conversations.
Their love lives aren't spectacular but it's proof that you exist. You're out there, somewhere to be discovered.
“It's... complicated.”
“I lost Gwen... she was- uh, she was my MJ.”
You're not Gwen, or MJ, or any other woman every other Peter Parker falls in love with. You're you, and he loves you.
They've made their marks and have stayed, exited or were left behind.
He won't give fate the chance to separate you from him now that's got you. Peter won't make that mistake a third time.
The sound of the bell chiming grabs your attention.
You look up and make eye contact with a shining pair of eyes, ones that are hopeful.
You think he’s cute.
You look away and busy yourself with wiping the counter with a damp rag but you have a great memory.
Nice, brown eyes that match his hair; tufts of soft curls and gelled back.
His button nose reminds you of a bunny. His lips slender and pink-ish red. His cheeks a similar rosy color from the biting cold breeze outside.
The cute stranger makes his way to the counter, not once breaking contact you despite you doing so.
“Hi, how are you?” You recite the greeting with your best customer service smile.
“I-I’m good. How are you?” He smiles back sheepishly.
“I’m great, thanks for asking. So, what can I get for you?”
You take out your notepad and pen, preparing to write down the cute guy’s order.
A few seconds go by and you look up from your notepad, not expecting the silence.
He stares at you— no, through you.
His eyes hold an inexplicable sadness, one that is conflicting.
“Do you need a minute?” You ask not able to hide your concern.
He smiles but it doesn’t feel genuine. Shaking his head, he deeply inhales.
You note his eyes seem water, like he’s tearing up but he blinks a couple of times; making them dry up a bit.
“My name is Peter Parker and I…” Peter trails off when your necklace comes into his view.
A single black dahlia petal, from when he accidentally broke it fighting Quentin Beck, also known as Mysterio.
But he knows you don’t remember that. You probably don’t even remember how you got the necklace or what it’s supposed to be.
You look at him expectantly, waiting patiently for him to finish his sentence but something tells you he’s not here for that.
“Peter?” Your soft voice brings him out of his trance and for a split second, he believes you recognize him.
“You were saying?”
Oh. Right. I told her my name.
Peter thinks about telling you everything right then and there but he ultimately decides against it.
It isn’t the right place or time.
“I’d like a coffee. Please.”
He can’t complain about a broken heart if he’s the one that broke his own.
You nod. “Okay, what kind?”
“An espresso with vanilla cold foam.”
That’s one of your favorite coffee’s and you can’t help yourself.
“I love that for you.” You say as you scribble away.
He smiles. I know. “Why?”
He just wants to hear you talk about something you’re fond of. He’ll never get tired of that.
“It’s one of my favorite drinks, I thought of it randomly one day and thought why not, you know?”
You recall the memory but something’s missing. It feels fuzzy but you can’t break this feeling of knowing. How else can you explain the memory?
“Huh.” You say. “I can’t remember ever making it. You smile but you still feel kind of uneasy.
Peter can feel a pit forming in his stomach. “You will.”
His encouragement feels cryptic.
“Is that all for you today?”
He nods and takes out a five dollar bill.
You cash it in the register and give him his change.
As you turn away to make his coffee, you can’t help but feel drawn to him.
He feels familiar somehow.
It’s crazy, you’ve never been the love-at-first-sight type and don’t believe in it.
What about him is making me feel this way?
It’s the way he looks at you. With longing, hope. Like he’s been waiting forever to come by this café and speak to you. Like he knew you’d be here.
You sigh, not believing yourself.
I mean seriously, I sound fucking stupid.
Shaking your head, you place a cardboard slip sleeve the middle of the cup along with the lid on top and hand it to him.
“Here you go.” You smile.
“Thank you.”
Peter stands in front of you, opening his mouth to say something— anything.
He hesitates to turn away, it’s now or never.
He waits a beat before giving in.
“Are you going to MIT?”
He cringes internally, great now you look like some stalker idiot.
“Yeah, actually. I am.”
Something told you, you didn’t have to lie to him.
He nods. “Cool, same.”
Peter thinks he’s so fucking awkward and he wants to die but you think he’s awkwardly charming, endearing even.
I am so not crushing on him right now.
Yes you are.
“Alright, well… I’ll uh see you around?”
Why did I have to make it sound like a question?
It’s not like he’s unsure. He knows he’ll see you around because he has to.
You chuckle lightly at his attempt of making himself scarce. “Sure, have a good day.”
“You too.” He says quickly before ducking out of there.
You watch him leave through the window and feel an emptiness get ahold of you.
His presence made you feel something close to nostalgic but now it’s been multiplied tenfold.
“What is happening right now.” You murmur, dazed.
Peter lets his tears fall in an alleyway close by.
It hurts, seeing your loved one and not being able to say a thing because you’re unsure they’ll be untouched.
He doesn’t want to plague you with his curse, doom your life with dread.
May barely made it out alive and he’s living that aftermath, too.
It’s during times like this he wishes Tony were alive. He’d know what to do.
Peter remembers the night you said you love him.
You said it with an unwavering honesty, like you’ve been sure of it your whole life. And you were.
Peter shakily inhales and holds up his coffee, his name written in black sharpie on the coffee holder in your handwriting.
There’s a smiley face drawn next to his last name and feels a surge of motivation jittering in his bones.
He can’t be selfish and allow you to feel disoriented about your entire life.
He wants to be selfless but seeing your face drop when you can’t remember how one of your favorite drinks was born, makes him reevaluate.
He’ll be selfish just this once, just for you. He’ll make good on his promise.
the city’s too loud, but the silence in peter’s head is worse. he tries to outrun it, but nothing quiets the noise when everything he’s feeling has no name.
warnings: more avoidance and lack of communication lol
genres: college au, fake-dating, friends w. benefits
word count: 3.8k
song: ykwim?, yot club
prev. series masterlist! next.
Peter didn’t have a destination in mind. He rarely did when he was like this—when his head was too full and his hands ached for something to hold that wasn’t a person. The city streaked beneath him in blurs of headlights and steel shadows as he swung through the skyline, high and fast, the December air sharp against his cheeks. Usually, the adrenaline helped. The weightlessness, the tension in his arms, the familiar rush of speed—it was all supposed to crack his thoughts into manageable fragments. But tonight, none of it was working.
He landed atop the Empire State Building like he’d done it a hundred times before, feet finding their place on cold metal, chest rising and falling with each breath. For a while, he just stood there, the wind tugging at his mask as the city unfolded beneath him in glittering constellations of car lights and distant windows. It was beautiful. It was loud. It was too much and not nearly enough.
Down below, the world carried on without him—people stumbling out of bars, cabs honking, someone smoking in a doorway while talking too loudly on the phone. And up here, it was just him, surrounded by noise that couldn’t touch him and silence that wouldn’t leave him alone.
When he was younger, swinging had fixed everything. He’d launch himself across boroughs, dive between buildings like he didn’t care what happened when he hit the ground, and the chaos was enough to drown out the rest. But now, no matter how fast he moved or how low he dropped, even skimming so close to the rooftops that his fingers brushed rusted railings, nothing shook the thoughts loose. His mind kept circling back, playing the same three words over and over like a skipping record.
You were right.
He was an idiot.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t just told May the truth—that you weren’t actually dating. It wouldn’t have taken much. One sentence. Two seconds. But when she’d asked him, eyes soft and proud in that quiet way she always got when she thought he was becoming someone real—someone worthy of being loved—he couldn’t bring himself to correct her. He didn’t want to. That was the excuse, anyway.
That maybe a little pretending wouldn’t hurt.
But that had been the same excuse when he let you kiss him in Liz’s closet. When he let you teach him how to kiss. When his fingers found your skin and your mouth found his and you moaned his name like it belonged to you. So how could he keep lying to himself now, telling himself it was nothing when it had already become something he couldn’t explain?
It wasn’t just convenient anymore. It wasn’t just physical. But it wasn’t something solid enough to name either, and that space in between felt like a trap—one he kept walking into with his eyes wide open.
His thoughts had been circling like vultures since the moment he dropped you off at your dorm. The ride back from Queens had been quiet—not tense, but not comfortable either. Like the silence itself was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to say something you weren’t quite ready to say. There was weight to it. Fog, maybe. Or truth with no shape yet.
He’d woken up with your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wound around your waist like instinct, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. May hadn’t come in—probably out of mercy or fear—but even if she had, all she would’ve seen was you, asleep and safe in his arms like you’d always belonged there. And that should’ve been comforting. Instead, it scared the hell out of him.
Because there had been nothing overtly intimate. No jokes. No pressure. Just warmth. Just closeness. Just the kind of emotional intimacy he didn’t know how to navigate.
And that—more than anything—terrified him.
Because he didn’t know what it meant now. Didn’t know what you were to him. Didn’t know how to name it.
Just you. Just him. And a thousand messy, complicated moments strung between.
Watching the city from above wasn’t helping. The distance felt too big and the thoughts too loud. So he jumped again.
The city, for all its talk of being sleepless, didn’t stay fully awake. Not really. After the trains slowed and the bars cleared, it settled into something quieter. Not still, but hushed. Like a heartbeat instead of a pulse. Peter moved through that hum easily, the suit tight to his body, swinging low over quiet streets and amber-lit avenues, the wind a constant against his skin. Lower Manhattan was mostly empty now—just bodega clerks locking up and the occasional cluster of college students leaving someone’s too-loud apartment in puffer coats and backward hats.
He helped a girl find her dorm—clearly drunk, clearly trying to pretend otherwise. She’d dropped her phone twice and tried to open the wrong door three times before he offered help, deepening his voice with the suit’s modulation. She nearly cried at the sight of him and kept thanking him like she thought Spider-Man had saved her from some great peril. He smiled politely and left before it became a whole thing.
A few blocks later, he stopped some guy from smashing a car window. Webbed his hand to the handle and walked away as the alarm blared through the night, immediately regretting it. He could already hear the morning headlines about Spider-Menaces disturbing the peace, and he made a mental note to circle back and apologize if he had time.
None of it was serious. Nothing worth calling in backup. But it kept his hands busy. Kept the quiet from creeping in.
He swung over the Williamsburg Bridge, the metal cold and groaning underfoot, and didn’t stop until he found himself back in Midtown. He crouched low on a rooftop near Bryant Park, perched like he was part of the architecture, breathing slow and even as he stared down at the street below.
But even now, even here, the image of you wouldn’t leave him alone.
The way your hair had curled near your jaw, the way your mouth parted slightly in sleep, the way his hand had stayed on the small of your back the whole night like it had every right to be there. It wasn’t just about touch anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. And pretending otherwise wasn’t helping—especially when every thought of you felt like it tugged loose a thread in the center of his chest.
He sighed through the mask and stood.
“Karen,” he muttered, voice low against the synthetic fabric.
“Yes, Peter?” Her voice chimed sweet and even in his ear, unfazed by the late hour.
“What time is it?”
“It is currently 2:04 a.m.”
The number didn’t surprise him, but it still settled into his gut like a weight. He didn’t feel tired. He didn’t really feel anything, except maybe restless in the kind of way that couldn’t be solved with movement.
His gaze drifted east, toward the familiar silhouette of Stark Tower cutting through the sky. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already moving.
It took him less than five minutes to reach the Tower. He landed lightly on the terrace just above the main labs, heart still racing in that restless, uneven way that had nothing to do with the swing. The building glowed from the inside, warm light pouring through the windows and spilling onto the steel like a lighthouse in the middle of everything else.
That’s when he saw him—Tony. Inside. Back turned, sleeves rolled up, fiddling with something on the workbench. A few flickering projections hovered in the air above him, all faint blue light and shifting numbers.
Peter didn’t hesitate.
He tapped two fingers against the glass like a kid knocking on a fish tank—just loud enough to be noticed. Then he swung forward, stuck himself to the wall, and nudged it open like he belonged there.
“Hey,” he said as he stepped in, trying for casual but falling somewhere short. The lab smelled faintly like metal and whatever Tony had last burned through a soldering iron. Weirdly comforting.
“Hope I’m not interrupting.”
Tony didn’t look up. “Too late. You’re already here.”
Peter smiled, soft and crooked, stepping further inside as the city sounds slipped behind the glass. Tony was hunched over a screen, glasses low on his nose, a half-full mug of something too dark to be tea clutched in one hand. He finally glanced over, raising a brow like he’d already scanned Peter’s brain on the way in.
“Let me guess—cyou couldn’t sleep, your legs were twitchy, you went for a swing and ended up here, haunting my lab, instead of dealing with whatever emotional meltdown’s chewing a hole in your chest.”
Peter blinked. “I mean—yeah. Pretty much.”
Tony sipped. “Figured.”
There was something grounding about how easily he said it. No drama. No pity. Just a quick glance at Peter’s wind-mussed hair, his damp suit, the lack of blood or bruises—then right back to whatever he was working on.
He rotated the screen toward Peter. “Tony turned the screen with a flick of his fingers. “I was about to recalibrate the phase shielding again. Banner’s algorithm’s good, but it still dips under load. Want to run it with me?”
Peter let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”
They slipped into rhythm easily, the way they always did when they were too tired to talk and too wired to sit still. Tony pointed out where something was glitching, and Peter helped stabilize the interface—tightening things, smoothing out the feedback, rerouting a few loose connections. It wasn’t anything too fancy or urgent, but at least it was something for him to focus on. And that was what made it so comforting.
It didn’t take long to fix whatever was acting up. They ran the loop again—this time, everything stayed steady with a soft, stable hum.
Peter leaned back and dragged a hand through his hair, curls sticking up worse than before.
Tony tapped on a notepad, eyes scanning the latest readouts. “So. You want to talk about it now, or are we going to pretend I didn’t see you swing into my building like a broody raccoon at two in the morning?”
Peter huffed out a laugh, tired and sheepish. “You really don’t miss much, do you.”
“I miss a lot of things. Not Parker-brand guilt. That stuff practically glows.”
Peter winced. “Fair.”
Tony finally looked at him, one brow raised. “This about the girl? The one who gave you those bruises?”
Peter’s face flushed instantly. “Um. Yeah. Kind of.”
Tony waited.
“The relationship,” Peter clarified. “It’s not… it was fake. It started out fake. She was helping me with something, and then Ned thought we were dating and we didn’t really correct him, and it just kind of… kept going.”
Tony nodded once, slowly. “And now?”
Peter hesitated, picking at the edge of the console. “Now it’s… confusing. It doesn’t feel fake anymore, but we never really talked about what it is, and I didn’t tell May the truth, either. She thinks it’s serious, and I just… let her believe it.”
Tony didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him, eyes sharper than they had any right to be at this hour.
“You’re in deep, huh.”
Peter let out a breath. “Yeah.”
“Okay. So, first things first—don’t lie to May again. That woman sees through bullshit like it’s laminated.”
Peter groaned. “Believe me, I know.”
“Second,” Tony added, his tone softer now, “you didn’t screw anything up beyond saving. You’re scared. That’s not the same thing.”
Peter nodded, slow.
“You’re what, nineteen?”
“Nineteen,” Peter confirmed quietly.
Tony gave him a look that was half fond, half exasperated. “I was still blowing things up on purpose when I was nineteen. You’re already ahead.”
Peter gave a weak smile.
Tony leaned on the table. “Look, if it feels real to you now, it probably is. Doesn’t matter how it started. Don’t let that stop you from saying what you actually feel.”
Peter’s throat tightened. “What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
Tony shrugged. “Then at least you know. And you stop torturing yourself swinging around the city like a wind-up emo action figure at 1AM. Maybe you’ll get a decent night of sleep after.”
Peter let out a quiet laugh. “You have a way with words.”
“Occupational hazard,” Tony said, brushing him off with a small smile. He clapped a hand to Peter’s shoulder. “You’ve got good instincts, kid. Trust them. You’ll know what to do..”
Peter nodded, something easing behind his ribs. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
“Now get out of my lab before I put you on the payroll.”
Peter snorted, pulling his mask back into place and heading for the exit. The night still buzzed at the edges of his thoughts, but something about his chest felt lighter now. Less tangled.
The wind caught him the second he stepped outside, rushing past his ears, cool and fast and steady. He didn’t pause. He launched himself back into the air and swung forward, cutting clean through the sky like muscle memory. The city blurred beneath him again—streetlights, rooftop murals, rusted fire escapes. But for the first time all night, something in him relaxed.
He aimed toward campus, instinct guiding him there like it always did, even when he didn’t plan it. Patrolling around ESU was trickier—too many lights, too many students still awake. Even at two in the morning, the sidewalks were alive with scattered laughter and hoodie-clad chaos. He kept to the rooftops, scanning for anything off. Most of it was the usual mess—someone crying too loud on FaceTime, someone else fighting a vending machine, a pizza box being fought over by a raccoon and a very drunk guy who was definitely losing.
Ned, bless him, had left the window cracked again—his unspoken signal that Peter could sneak in without knocking. Peter made a mental note to buy him a sandwich. But just as he was about to swing through the window, he caught sight of something below. A figure curled up on a bench just off the main path, half-hidden in the glow of a nearby lamppost.
It was you.
His stomach pulled tight.
You were bundled in your jacket, knees tucked up, earbuds in. He recognized the song—it was muffled, but the beat was familiar. Couldn’t place the name, but he knew it. Your eyes weren’t closed, just distant. Not upset and it didn’t seem like you had been crying. Just… elsewhere.
He stayed still for a beat, crouched low on a rooftop ledge, watching the slow rise and fall of your breathing. You didn’t look like you needed saving, but you didn’t quite look okay, either.
He sighed and webbed down to a nearby lamppost, landing soft on the grass.
You didn’t flinch when he stepped closer—just blinked and looked up slowly, like you weren’t sure if you were dreaming him or not.
“You okay, ma’am?” came a voice above you—low, hesitant.
You startled a little, blinking up from the bench. Spider-Man stood just a few feet away, half-lit by the glow of the nearby lamppost. His posture was casual, but his tone was… off. Familiar, somehow. Not the usual deep, modulated voice from those viral clips online.
You took out one earbud slowly, brows furrowing. “Do I… know you?”
There was a beat of silence. Just long enough for you to see his stance stiffen slightly.
Then he cleared his throat and dropped his voice awkwardly. “Uh—nope. Definitely not. Just your friendly neighborhood… Spider-Man.”
You squinted. “Okay, but why do you sound like someone trying to do a Batman impression after a cold?”
He shifted his weight, hands half raised like that would help. “I have allergies.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Chronic. Year-round. Very tragic.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. “I don’t think that’s how allergies work.”
“I don’t think you’re a doctor,” he shot back, and then seemed to realize that probably wasn’t a great deflection. “Sorry, that came out ruder than I meant. I’m not good at… normal conversations when I’m wearing tights.”
That earned a quiet laugh from you. You tucked your other leg up on the bench and gave him a slow once-over. “Do you usually lurk around college campuses at night? Or is this a new patrol route?”
He shrugged. “City never sleeps.”
“Uh-huh,” you repeated, leaning your head back.
There was a pause.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked after a moment, quieter now.
You glanced at him again. Something about his presence wasn’t unnerving like it should’ve been. Warm, in a way that made your throat feel tight. “Yeah. Head won’t shut up.”
“I get that.”
You gave a faint, lopsided smile. “What, Spider-Man got licensed as a therapist now?”
“I dabble,” he said with mock humility. “I also do weddings, DJing, minor tech support. I’m very versatile.”
You huffed. “Sounds exhausting.”
“Yeah, well. Beats sitting around letting your brain eat itself.”
You looked at him a little more carefully, something about the way he said it landing too close to home. The silence between you stretched. Not awkward—just weighted. Then your music, still softly playing from your single earbud, crackled into something familiar.
Peter tilted his head. “Is that… Yot Club?”
You blinked. “You know Yot Club?”
“I mean—I’ve heard this one before. My girl—uh, a friend of mine, played it for me a while ago. I forget what it’s called.”
“You know what I mean.”
He paused. “Know what?”
You blinked once, then let out a laugh. “No, that’s the name of the song. ‘YKWIM.’”
His eyes—those mechanical lenses—widened slightly. “Oh. Right. Okay. I was like, wow, I didn’t think I was being that vague.”
You grinned. “You’re doing great.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “I try to make up for the awkwardness with raw charm.”
“Mm. Jury’s still out.”
“Brutal.”
“Fair.”
You tugged out your other earbud and glanced at the empty quad. “You know, sometimes I forget Spider-Man’s just… a person. You’re like a dude. Who knows indie music and makes bad jokes.”
He raised his hands like he’d been caught. “Guilty.”
You looked back at him, tone a little softer now. “That friend of yours. She’s got good taste.”
His answer came too quickly. “Yeah. I think so too.”
“She your girlfriend?”
He scratched the back of his head, as if remembering halfway through that there was no hair to scratch through the mask. “It’s… complicated.”
“Ah. You too, huh.”
That seemed to surprise him. “You?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just looked out across the quiet campus, eyes catching on nothing in particular. The pause stretched, but not in a way that begged to be filled. Then you gave a half-shrug, noncommittal but not cold.
Peter’s gaze lingered on you for a beat longer, thoughtful. “Is that why you’re out here?”
“Something like that,” you said with a dry smile. “Everything’s just situationships nowadays.”
He let out a breath. “That sounds... familiar.”
For a moment, the silence between you felt softer. It wasn’t awkward, but more familiar in a way that snuck up on both of you. Something about him felt less like a stranger and more like a reflection.
Eventually, you pushed to your feet and gave a stretch, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans.
“Well,” you said. “I should get back before someone thinks I’m trying to seduce Spider-Man outside the dorms.”
He barked a laugh. “Honestly, could be good for my image.”
You started to walk away, footsteps light against the pavement, then paused halfway across the quad. Your eyes narrowed a little as you turned back toward him, head tilted. “Hey… are you sure we haven’t met before?”
His spine straightened almost imperceptibly. “Pretty sure,” he said, trying for casual. “I guess I’m just…friendly and familiar?”
You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Oh, totally. Very familiar.”
He stayed still as you lingered for one more beat, grinning like you were onto something. “Be safe, Spider-Man. And, y’know, maybe don’t head back to your dorm by swinging around campus or anything—wouldn’t want anyone thinking you actually go here. That’d be way too subtle.”
He huffed softly behind the mask, warmth curling at the edges of his chest despite himself. “Noted.”
Peter stayed crouched against the shadowed edge of the rooftop as you turned and walked away, your figure small against the soft amber wash of the quad lights. He didn’t move until the dorm doors closed behind you, until a familiar window on the third floor flickered to life.
Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding.
He took the long way back, darting between chimneys and ducking low across rooftops, sticking to shadows until he reached his own building. There was a small ledge just beneath the roof, and he crept along it with practiced ease, flattening himself to the brick and cracking open the window Ned always forgot to lock. He slipped through silently, landing in a crouch between a laundry basket and a chair stacked with textbooks.
The dorm was quiet. Ned’s steady breathing filled the dark room, and the air smelled faintly of kettle corn and air freshener—cheap and vaguely citrusy. Peter peeled off the mask, moving slowly, like his limbs were made of something heavier than muscle. He sank onto the edge of the mattress still fully suited, legs swinging off the side, the taste of the night still fresh in his mouth.
His heart hadn’t slowed down.
And the way you’d looked just then—your voice soft, your smile not quite as sure as usual—it lodged itself in his chest like something half-formed and dangerous. A thought. A hope. A knowing.
He let his head tip back against the wall and closed his eyes.
A moment later, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.
You: ur never gonna believe who i just ran into
Peter stared at the screen, a slow, stunned smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
He didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. There was something almost sacred about it—this quiet, glowing thread stretched between your room and his, between who he was with the mask and who he was without it.
He read the text again, then shut off the screen and rested the phone on his chest.
There was no sleep waiting for him on the other side of this night.
“But when she’d asked him, eyes soft and proud in that quiet way she always got when she thought he was becoming someone real—someone worthy of being loved—he couldn’t bring himself to correct her”
THIS LINE HAS ME SOBBING. MY POOR BABY BOY 🥺🥺 I WANT TO CRAWL THROUGH THE SCREEN AND HUG HIM AND TELL HIM THAT HE IS ALREADY WORTHY OF BEING LOVED
ok legitimately this is such a good video because it gets across the general vibe of “this show is more than you think it is” without giving away too many specific spoilers, like I think this would be a good video to show someone who didn’t know what su was
Okay, since the AI discourse is happening again, I want to make this very clear, because a few weeks ago I had to explain to a (well meaning) person in the community how AI works. I'm going to be addressing people who are maybe younger or aren't familiar with the latest type of "AI", not people who purposely devalue the work of creatives and/or are shills.
The name "Artificial Intelligence" is a bit misleading when it comes to things like AI chatbots. When you think of AI, you think of a robot, and you might think that by making a chatbot you're simply programming a robot to talk about something you want them to talk about, and it's similar to an rp partner. But with current technology, that's not how AI works. For a breakdown on how AI is programmed, CGP grey made a great video about this several years ago (he updated the title and thumbnail recently)
I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend you watch this because CGP Grey is good at explaining, but the tl;dr for this post is this: bots are made with a metric shit-ton of data. In C.AI's case, the data is writing. Stolen writing, usually scraped fanfiction.
How do we know chatbots are stealing from fanfiction writers? It knows what omegaverse is [SOURCE] (it's a Wired article, put it in incognito mode if it won't let you read it), and when a Reddit user asked a chatbot to write a story about "Steve", it automatically wrote about characters named "Bucky" and "Tony" [SOURCE].
I also said this in the tags of a previous reblog, but when you're talking to C.AI bots, it's also taking your writing and using it in its algorithm: which seems fine until you realize 1. They're using your work uncredited 2. It's not staying private, they're using your work to make their service better, a service they're trying to make money off of.
"But Bucca," you might say. "Human writers work like that too. We read books and other fanfictions and that's how we come up with material for roleplay or fanfiction."
Well, what's the difference between plagiarism and original writing? The answer is that plagiarism is taking what someone else has made and simply editing it or mixing it up to look original. You didn't do any thinking yourself. C.AI doesn't "think" because it's not a brain, it takes all the fanfiction it was taught on, mixes it up with whatever topic you've given it, and generates a response like in old-timey mysteries where somebody cuts a bunch of letters out of magazines and pastes them together to write a letter.
(And might I remind you, people can't monetize their fanfiction the way C.AI is trying to monetize itself. Authors are very lax about fanfiction nowadays: we've come a long way since the Anne Rice days of terror. But this issue is cropping back up again with BookTok complaining that they can't pay someone else for bound copies of fanfiction. Don't do that either.)
Bottom line, here are the problems with using things like C.AI:
It is using material it doesn't have permission to use and doesn't credit anybody. Not only is it ethically wrong, but AI is already beginning to contend with copyright issues.
C.AI sucks at its job anyway. It's not good at basic story structure like building tension, and can't even remember things you've told it. I've also seen many instances of bots saying triggering or disgusting things that deeply upset the user. You don't get that with properly trigger tagged fanworks.
Your work and your time put into the app can be taken away from you at any moment and used to make money for someone else. I can't tell you how many times I've seen people who use AI panic about accidentally deleting a bot that they spent hours conversing with. Your time and effort is so much more stable and well-preserved if you wrote a fanfiction or roleplayed with someone and saved the chatlogs. The company that owns and runs C.AI can not only use whatever you've written as they see fit, they can take your shit away on a whim, either on purpose or by accident due to the nature of the Internet.
DON'T USE C.AI, OR AT THE VERY BARE MINIMUM DO NOT DO THE AI'S WORK FOR IT BY STEALING OTHER PEOPLES' WORK TO PUT INTO IT. Writing fanfiction is a communal labor of love. We share it with each other for free for the love of the original work and ideas we share. Not only can AI not replicate this, but it shouldn't.
(also, this goes without saying, but this entire post also applies to ai art)
Currently thinking about how Inside Out 2 expands on that bit in the first Inside Out where Joy says that Fear keeps Riley safe. Instead of keeping Riley scared like you might expect, his job is to keep Riley safe, and how one of the most impactful moments of Inside Out 2 is when Joy gets Anxiety away from the controls and she’s lying on the floor and says, “I just wanted to protect her”. How these movies look at emotions that are “bad” because they make us feel bad and scared and says, “no, they need to be here. they’re trying to keep you safe, they just get a little carried away sometimes”. How the movie itself makes comparisons between Fear and Anxiety and makes jokes about how they’d get along but those jokes and comparisons have a deeper meaning because anxiety is fear that’s become a knight, that’s gone on the offensive instead of the defensive, that’s a strategist, that says, “how can I prepare, how can I get ahead of this, how can I prevent myself from getting hurt” and “if I hurt myself on the inside first the outside hurt will hurt less” and, most importantly, “how can I survive this?”
Anyway, I’m kind of obsessed with how Inside Out literally takes the daunting, complex, abstract concept of emotions and is like, “people would understand you better if you were a little guy” and they’re right literally every single time??? How???
